Page:A Son at the Front (1923) Wharton.djvu/24

tion of a complete and lasting friendship with his only son, at the moment when such understandings do most to shape a youth's future. . . "And with what I've had to fight against!" he groaned, seeing victory in sight, and sickening at the idea that it might be snatched from him.

Then another thought came, and he felt the blood leaving his ruddy face and, as it seemed, receding from every vein of his heavy awkward body. He sat down opposite Dastrey, and the two looked at each other.

"There won't be war. But if there were—why shouldn't George and I go to Sicily? You don't see us sitting here making lint, do you?"

Dastrey smiled. "Lint is unhygienic; you won't have to do that. And I see no reason why you shouldn't go to Sicily—or to China." He paused. "But how about George—I thought he and you were both born in France?"

Campton reached for a cigarette. "We were, worse luck. He's subject to your preposterous military regulations. But it doesn't make any difference, as it happens. He's sure to be discharged after that touch of tuberculosis he had last year, when he had to be rushed up to the Engadine."

"Ah, I see. Then, as you say. . . Still, of course he wouldn't be allowed to leave the country."

A constrained silence fell between the two. Campton